That’s the eternal question asked of nearly every writer/author whether successful or not.
Of course for the successful writer, though it’s hard to put a correct label on what constitutes successful, it’s either because we can make an adequate living out of it, and if it’s not that, for me anyway, it is the life of writing and the joy when someone reads a piece and leaves s review that makes it all worthwhile.
It’s not always about the money.
Most writers have a day job and squirrel themselves away in a variety of places they call their writing space and yoil long into the night, or over the weekends, trying to fit in everything else.
For most out happy times are when we are constructing a story, lost in another world, away from the everyday hustle bustle and problems usually left behind when the kids go to sleep.
I’m sure I would like to travel the world but it would only to be in search of locations of my stories, there is no such thing as a holiday that is just a holiday, and there’s a reason why Venice is a favoured location, as is London, as is New York.
These days when my other half is visiting doctors, hospitals, and specialists, those long hours in the waiting room are spent conjuring up new stories, working on current projects and just dreaming.
We spend a lot of time in these places, and she gets to read and I get to write. I’m sure a lot of the others wonder what it is that I am up to. Our GP whom we visit at least once a month and the wait can be up to about an hour has noticed when he comes out to call us in, and always asks what I’m up to.
If I didn’t have something to write, I think I would go bonkers.
50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.
They all start with –
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And, the story:
Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply just fly away?
Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, i came to the airport to see the plane leave. Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.
But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision. She needed the opportunity to spread her wings. It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.
She was in a rut. Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level, that she, the youngest of the group would get the position.
It was something that had been weighing down of her for the last three months, and if noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper. I knew she had one, no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.
And, then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere. Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication. It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact she had to entertain more, and frankly I felt like an embarrassment to her.
So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock. We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.
It was then she said she had quit her job and found a new one. Starting the following Monday.
Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.
I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.
What surprised her was my reaction. None.
I simply asked where who, and when.
A world-class newspaper, in New York, and she had to be there in a week.
A week.
It was all the time I had left with her.
I remember I just shrugged and asked if the planned weekend away was off.
She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.
Is that all you want to know?
I did, yes, but we had lost that intimacy we used to have when she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.
There’s not much to ask, I said. You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place, and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.
Her immediate superior and instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position he had not taken advantage of a situation like some men would. And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.
One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.
So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.
Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology. It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you. I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.
Yes, our relationship had a use by date, and it was in the next few days.
I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me, you can make cabinets anywhere.
I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job. It was everything around her and going with her, that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.
Then the only question left was, what do we do now?
Go shopping for suitcases. Bags to pack, and places to go.
Getting on the roller coaster is easy. On the beginning, it’s a slow easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top. It’s much like some relationships, they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, follows by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.
What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.
Our roller coaster had just come or of the final turn and we were braking so that it stops at the station.
There was no question of going with her to New York. Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back. After a few months in t the new job the last thing shed want was a reminder of what she left behind. New friends new life.
We packed her bags, three out everything she didn’t want, a free trips to the op shop with stiff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.
Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming, that moment the taxi arrived to take her away forever. I remember standing there, watching the taxi go. It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.
So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.
Already that morning there’s been 6 different types of plane depart, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.
People coming, people going.
Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just see what the attraction was. Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.
As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.
It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you.
John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.
So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?
That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.
What should have been solace after disappointment, turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.
He suddenly realizes his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.
The story paints the characters cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice where, in those back streets I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.
All in all a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.
I asked Alfie to send me a track of Francesca’s movements, yes, I cloned her phone too, because I didn’t trust her, and yes, she went to see Anna at the Burkehardt’s residence.
We had a recording of her conversation, but it didn’t amount to much and Anna finished up yelling at her and kicking her out of the house. Not literally, but if she hadn’t left the house when she did…
She was sitting at the table with her computer open. By the way she shut it quickly, I suspect it was a video call to her boss.
“Your boss not happy with progress?”
She glared at me.
“You should go and have a talk to Anna Burkehardt. Charming lady.”
Cecelia snorted almost too loudly on her way to the bathroom.
Francesca shrugged. “Where have you been?”
“Looking at vines, would you believe.”
“How is that going to help?
“It’s not. But I’ve decided you can come with me to see the countess.”
“You found her?”
“Not exactly. She’s always been here, waiting for the day to sign the documents. I was going to keep her away from your lot, now I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. You can recognise her if you see her?”
“Are you saying the woman you have is not the countess?”
“No. I’m asking if you can recognise her.”
“Of course. We have a half dozen photographs we used, and some that deliberately disguise her in case she’s trying to be anonymous.”
“Good. Tomorrow morning.”
That simple conversation was to see if she called her boss and they make arrangements to ‘take’ the countess into their protective custody, or, take her to Anna von Burkehardt.
As I said to Cecelia later, we would soon find out who Francesca and her people were working for. Because of the hostility that Anne had shown towards her, I was wondering if Anna was, in fact, the one who hired them to find the countess.
“You’re going to have a busy morning tomorrow,” I said to Cecelia. “You need to watch is leave and see if anyone follows us.”
“Do you really think they’d be that unsubtle?”
“Yes. When large sums of money are involved.”
“And what will Anna do to her?”
“Nothing. She’ll know straight away it’s not the real Countess, so I’m sure after they snatch her, the Countess will escape. She can’t afford to be unmasked. Not yet.
The fact that Cecelia didn’t tell me what I was doing was risky, told me that it was risky.
During the night, tossing and turning, with various women on my mind, I went through various scenarios, each of which had a bad outcome, the worst where Francesca became collateral damage.
This whole exercise was to see the lengths the fake Countess would go to not to be identified. Or whether she thought her cover was good enough to fool everyone.
Except perhaps Anna.
A mother knows her daughter-in-law, especially after all that time. A fake could not replicate the mannerisms, the speech, the idiosyncrasies, or a lifetime of just being together.
And I was banking on Francesca’s boss being greedy and putting money before ethics. Francesca didn’t strike me as one with ethical problems, but I had read books by their covers before and been horribly wrong.
If it all blew up in my face at the very least, I could use it as an example of what not to do, but I doubt Cecelia would thank me in a hurry.
By the time I was ready to go, Cecelia had gone out for her morning run, and Francesca was ready to go and see the countess. We had just enough time to sort out how we were going to communicate, and it was going to be amusing having Cecelia’s voice in my head.
At one point I had heavy breathing in my ear and told her it was distracting. She simply replied that I should get out and join her and get rid of some of that retirement flab.
She did not have to be so mean, even if she was right.
I finished the coffee Cecelia had made in the percolator an hour before and tasted over-brewed, then finally stopped running scenarios that ended in disaster in my head.
“You ready?” I asked her.
I’d seen the transcript of the call Francesca made to her boss after I told her I was taking her to see the countess, and I knew the answer to that question. It was rhetorical, but I couldn’t tell her that.
I just hoped the team that descended on us at the hotel was not a smash-and-grab type, not afraid to leave bodies behind.
This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.
The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Things are about to get complicated…
“You’re not a target. Yet.”
“Severin?”
“A loose end who was a rather bad blunt instrument, like his friend Maury. They learned of a plan to steal some military secrets, tried to stop it and in the end almost destroyed 12 months of painstaking undercover work. O’Connell had it within his grasp, and therefore in safe hands when those two wrecked a perfectly good retrieval. Four potential agents dead and then there’s you, persistent I will admit, and one other, Jennifer, I believe her name is.”
“But you don’t have O’Connell, do you?”
“My, you have been working hard. My first mistake was to trust O’Connell. My second was to underestimate you, Jackson. I don’t intend to make a third. You don’t trust me, do you?”
Was it possible I’d get some version of the truth?
“Apparently he didn’t for some reason.”
“You found him. Jan said you were being all secretive. There was something you found in that flat in Peaslake.”
“No. He told me that in the alley.”
I sensed he knew way more than I did, but I had a missing piece, and he was going to play nice to get it. The thing is, I didn’t know what that was. Not the whole truth from me.
“Yes. Of course, he did.”
“Perhaps it was self-preservation, not that it did much since someone did shoot him.”
“Not with the intention of killing him. It was all arranged.”
“You knew he would be at that alley?”
“One of three escape routes. Neither of us anticipated you would be good enough to follow him. Severin got lucky with you, probably why he made you the lead.”
Severin hadn’t said as much when he told the group before the exercise began, that I would take point. I thought it was simply because in the prior five tests, I’d only failed one. Everyone else had varying results.
“Have you seen the CCTV footage of the explosion?”
“Several times. It must have been harrowing for you to relive that and see how close you came.”
“It did. But it did afford a view that I missed while preoccupied. McConnell and the wife of the scientist I believe stole the formulas.”
“Yes, Anna. What do you make of her?”
“From a single glimpse?”
“A good agent doesn’t need much to form an opinion. As you know, that opinion could be the difference between life and death.”
He was starting to sound like Severin. He said we had to be able to judge a book by its cover and make the right decision based on it. What did I think of Anna?
“Capable, determined. She survived an explosion that might well have been directed at her. Not your average scientist’s wife. “
“Did you check her out?”
“Not yet. I had this thing with Severin.”
“What did he want?”
“I don’t know. Jan killed him before he could tell me.”
“A guess?”
“He wanted to come in from the cold before he ended up like Maury. He knew his days were numbered. It also means that he knew something that someone didn’t want to be repeated. You, perhaps? I mean, you can help make the connection. Your idea for Jan to get his confidence?”
“Hers. She’s a good agent, so don’t worry about her. Find O’Connell. When you do, you will find Anna, and perhaps, a copy of that USB.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then the department has lost five million pounds.”
I have this thing about taking photos of the ocean. This one was taken early in the morning, after sunrise, which was pretty spectacular, and of a passing rain belt. It’s not quite as discernable as it was with the naked eye, but it was out to sea, and I wondered what it might be like aboard a large ship.
What if the rain storm followed the ship? It would be intriguing to know if that’s ever happened, but my thought would be, a ship in the middle of the ocean, with limited engine power because of a mysterious breakdown, pouring rain continuously pounding the ship keeping everyone inside, and then people start dying.
Of course, there’s no visible reason why they should be, no wounds, no strangulation, no gunshot or knife attacks, people just dropping dead.
Is it the shroud that has enveloped the ship?
Is it unworldly?
Is it nature’s retribution?
It might be the latter, because on board is a large group of industrialists responsible for more of the carbon dioxide output that is destroying the ozone layer and worsening climate change.
It Started as an A to Z blog post and took NaNoWriMo to make it happen
…
Of late, I have been writing this year’s A to Z blog, which, since 2019, have been 26 short stories themed on the alphabet.
Last year, when I was writing a particular story, when I finished it, it seemed like there was more.
That’s when an idea hit me, and I started writing. Some years, a particular story captures my attention, and I write another, which will come another of the 26, and rarely, I will write a third.
The thing is, it turned out to be a more interesting subject that had a larger story and do it began, adding chapters as the story developed in my mind, so that by the time November, and NANOWRIMO arrived it was almost a full length novel.
By the way, NANOWRIMO is short for National November Writers Month. It has a website site, and the Writing Task, it is not a competition, is to write a novel of over 50,000 words over the 39 days of November.
I have done this for the last seven or eight years and managed to complete at least seven full-length novels.
Two of them so far have started as short stories, and I think there will be another this year.
The A to Z blog event is held in April and runs for 26 days, excluding Sundays. Each blog entry is about a letter, starting with A.
In the first year, I did it with words. From then on, I decided to write short stories, starting with A is for: along with the title of the story.
So far, I have written nearly 250 short stories, of which about 20 have become what I call long short stories.
As accomplished as we can be at putting words on paper, what is it that makes it so difficult to sit in a chair with a camera on you, and say words rather than write them?
Er and um seem to crop up a lot in verbal speech.
OK, it was a simple question; “What motivates you to write?”
Damn.
My brain just turned to mush, and the words come out sounding like a drunken sailor after a night out on the town.
The written answer to the question is simple; “The idea that someone will read what I have written, and quite possibly enjoy it; that is motivation enough.”
It highlights the difficulties of the novice author.
Not only are there the constant demands of creating a ‘brand’ and building a ‘following’, there is also the need to market oneself, and the interview is one of the more effective ways of doing this.
If only I can settle the nerves.
I mean, really, it is only my granddaughter who is conducting the interview, and the questions are relatively simple.
The trouble is, I’ve never had to do it before, well, perhaps in an interview for a job, but that is less daunting. That usually sticks to a predefined format.
Here the narrative can go in any direction. There are set questions, but the interviewer, in her inimitable manner, can sometimes slide a question in out of left field.
For instance, “Your character Zoe the assassin, is she based on someone you know, or an amalgam of other characters you’ve read about or seen in movies?”
That was an interesting question, and one that has several answers, but the one most relevant was; “It was the secret alter ego of one of the women I used to work with. I asked her one day if she wasn’t doing what she was, what she would like to do. It fascinated me that other people had the desire to be something more exotic in an alter ego.”
Of course, the next question was about what I wanted to be in an alter ego.
